


Steve Rogers vs. The 21st Century: Gender, sexuality, and love.

by MetaAllu



Category: Marvel 616, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Exploring Sexuality, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Steve deals with things by drawing, Transphobia, first date(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-07 22:10:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MetaAllu/pseuds/MetaAllu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I: Steve Rogers vs. Gender: The first time he meets one of them — and that sounds so unforgivably rude, but he doesn’t know what to <i>call them</i> — he’s at a coffee shop.<br/>II: Steve Rogers vs. Sexuality: He’s in a TV interview the first time someone brings up the apparent “issue” of sexuality.<br/>III: Steve Rogers vs. Love: Every now and then, Steve wakes up with shame sticking to the back of his tongue like cellotape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I. Gender

**Author's Note:**

> On account of the fact I am a delicate flower, anonymous commenting is disabled. This is a snazzy new feature and I like it. Let's see how this goes.
> 
> Unbeta'd because all of my betas have disappeared into the abyss and I had Feelings (which means if I spelled something wrong or put the wrong word somewhere, tell me).

The first time he meets one of them — and that sounds so unforgivably rude, but he doesn’t know what to _call them_. It’s all so confusing, and unclear, and everyone he knows is so ridiculously unhelpful, and there’s so many new words — he’s at a coffee shop. It smells like coffee and sugar, the kind of smell that makes him hold his breath a little, overwhelmed by all of the _things_ buffeting him at once. There are a bunch of different kinds of coffee, now, and the names for sizes are strange, and all he really wants is a plain, old coffee, but Tony likes these fancy places, and drags Steve to them constantly.  


He’s standing in line behind a person of average height. Brown hair of unhelpful length, dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his— her— its?— No. God, no. That’s horrible — their elbows. When it’s their turn to order, they speak and the voice comes out is not what Steve expected at all. It’s soft and not nearly as low as he had expected it to be: too low to be a woman, too high to be a man. He tries not to stare, he really does. They turn to go and wait for their coffee after ordering, and Steve catches a glimpse of large, blue eyes and plump, pink lips. His stomach roils uncomfortably, and he almost forgets it’s his turn to order. Then, he goes and stands beside them while he waits for his and Tony’s coffees. They tap one foot idly, fiddle with a thin, black cellphone. Their fingers are long and thin, but their chest is distinctly flat. It boggles him. The smell of caramel wafts through the air, a feminine hand takes hold of a coffee cup, and then in a whirl of fabric, spice, and caramel, they’re gone. Steve blinks at the spot where they were, staring at it, as if that will somehow clear things up. 

“Tall americano and a venti soy hazelnut macchiato with extra whipped cream,” the barista says. Steve snatches up the two coffees, puts lids on them, and then makes a beeline for the table where Tony is sitting, and— and chatting with the person Steve had seen before. 

Steve slides Tony’s coffee across the table to him, and the billionaire looks up, then grins brightly. 

“Speak of the devil. Ira, this is Steve. Steve, this is Ira,” Tony says cheerfully. 

“Um,” Steve says. “Hello.” 

The person takes a sip of their coffee, peering at him from under too-long eyelashes. They smile after a moment, lick coffee off their top lip. “Hello.” 

Steve could swear that his heart is in his throat, pounding quickly and uncomfortably. It’s not that he’s frightened. He isn’t a bigot. Well, he tries not to be. He tries really hard. It’s just that he doesn’t know what to do, or what to say. He doesn’t know what the right words are in this situation, and he feels small all over again. It makes him uncomfortable. Still, he knows that that’s his fault, not Ira’s. Or the time’s fault. This is a thing, now. People like this are a thing. There had been... there had been men who weren’t men, and women who weren’t women, of course. There had always been that, he thinks, but not this, whatever this is. 

“Ira works at NYPL,” Tony tells him. “Knows that place inside and out. My sanity has been saved by that great library catalogue of a brain more than once. We were just catching up.” 

“I can’t believe you even remember me,” Ira mutters, rolling their eyes. 

“I’m hurt,” Tony answers, putting a hand to his chest. Ira sips their coffee, eyes him, eyebrows raised. Knowing Tony, he remembers Ira’s name in case he has to go back again, and needs help. He remembers names when it’s useful to him. 

“I seriously need to get out of here,” Ira says after a few more sips. “I’m going to be late.” They glance at Tony, then at Steve, smile again. “‘Bye.” 

“Have a splendiferous day,” Tony says. 

“That’s not a word,” Steve says. 

“Yes, it is,” Ira answers, and then they’re gone again. 

* 

The following day, after his morning run, Steve tries googling “unknown gender.” It comes up with a bunch of results to do with pronouns, and something called a “post-punk” band, as well as some rather unsettling things about babies. Nothing he reads is actually comprehensible to him, so he goes down to Tony’s lab, instead. 

The man rarely sleeps, so Steve isn’t surprised to find him down there working away on an Iron Man armour. He knocks on the doorframe, then steps in. Tony pulls his head out of the chest cavity of the armour, and then grins at him brightly. 

“Steve-o!” he says. “What can I do for you this fine, uh...” He looks at his phone. “Morning. Oh, wow. I’ve been up a while.” 

“It’s actually about Ira,” Steve begins slowly. Tony looks up at him, and tilts his head to the side. “I was just... well, I was wondering— I mean, I wanted to know— I just...” He stumbles helplessly over his words, because there’s “politically correct” now, and he doesn’t know how to do that. He can feel his cheeks heating up as he flounders. 

Tony stares at him, taking longer than normal to process things, which Steve would guess the lack of sleep is responsible for. Then he says, “Oh. Wow. Is this a gender thing?” Steve nods. “Actually, I don’t know. I never bothered to ask. It never seemed important. Wait. Wait, is it important to you?” Steve nods again. Tony straightens up, and some tired light finds its way to his eyes. “Cap,” Tony says, sounding like a gleeful child. “Are you being transphobic?” 

“What?” Steve squawks. He doesn’t even know what that is, but he knows what _phobic_ is. “ _No_!” 

Tony cackles, and then unhelpfully goes back to work. 

* 

He tries googling transphobic. It’s very upsetting, so he closes the search window, as if that will somehow make the things that people have done and felt go away. 

* 

After that, he decides that maybe he’ll try the library. NYPL is a large building with floors and floors of books. There are people all over, and desks, and windows where the sunlight comes in. The shelves never end, and the further up he goes, the quieter it gets. He sits in a chair on the top floors, staring at all the books. It’s quiet, dusty and smelling of old paper. There’s sunlight coming in through the roof, shelves and sorting bins crammed together. He still doesn’t really know the right word. It seems like a hopeless endeavour, and the weight of some whole branch of people he doesn’t understand is heavy on his shoulders. 

Finally, he gives up and goes down to the front desk to ask for help. The person working there seems to have been in the middle of checking books back in, but got absorbed in a volume of H. P. Lovecraft. 

“Uh,” Steve says, and clears his throat. “Excuse me?” 

The book comes down, and a pair of large, blue eyes peer at him. 

“Oh, hey Steve,” Ira says. Steve feels like all of the breath has left his body, like his tongue is thick and useless. Ira is beautiful. He can say that with certainty. This person, no matter what they are, is simple and confident, frank, and to the point in even their actions. It makes Steve’s fingers itch, and he can’t ask, he just _can’t_. 

So, instead, he asks, “I was actually wondering if... if maybe I could draw you.” 

“Oh,” Ira says again. Silence falls heavy between them, brown eyebrows furrowing, blue eyes pensive. A hand comes up, running through their brown hair. “I guess if you want to.” 

“Okay,” Steve says. He pulls out the notebook he’s brought with him, and a pencil. Neither are technically drawing supplies, but it’s spur of the moment. “I’m just going to sit here, if that’s all right.” 

“Now?” Ira asks. 

“Is now a bad time?” Another silence. 

“No, I guess not. How did... I mean, should I pose or something?” 

“No. You can go back to reading.” 

He grabs a chair and settles down. Ira eyes him for a few moments, looking oddly scrutinizing, then they pick their book back up and go back to reading. Steve waits, simply doodling as Ira shifts and changes, glancing at him occasionally. Finally, Ira settles, absorbed in their reading, Steve completely forgotten. He starts, then. 

Ira’s expression is slightly pinched, as if something they’re reading doesn’t settle well with them, or maybe the print’s just too small. There’s a furrow between their eyebrows, creases at the corners of their eyes. Their cheekbones are high, and although Steve’s already noticed the long lashes, he has a new appreciation for them as he puts them to paper. Full, chapped lips; a thumb resting along their jawline; eyes slightly lidded. They’re resting their cheek in one hand, pushing some of their hair from their face. Idly, they twirl some of the locks around their pointer finger, over and over, a sure sign that they’ve forgotten they’re being drawn. Steve tries to capture the movement, drawing Ira’s finger crooked, wavy, chin-length locks slipping through the space there. Their shoulders hunch, back rounded, almost defensively, and the collar of their t-shirt is loose. Their collarbones protrude, and Steve can see just a bit lower than that. Definitely flat. Their curves are soft, and the hair not being pushed back by a hand flows down towards the book, where there is a hand pressed flat against the pages, keeping the stiff book open. The sun comes in through one of the windows, casting light over the back of Ira’s hand and the pages of the book, before spilling out over the desk and the floor. 

Steve has no idea how long he sits there, drawing. The sunlight moves, and then fades a little. The pages of the book turn, and then finally Ira closes the book and looks up, seeming startled to see Steve still there. 

“Hi,” they say. Steve flushes slightly. Beautiful, truly. Not in the kind of way that makes Steve hungry, but beautiful nonetheless. It’s different from what he’s used to. Ira has the softness of a woman, but the sharp angles of a man. Their posture is masculine, their chest is flat. There is no brasier under the shirt. Long fingers, sharp jawline, soft hair. They all go together, fitting in a way Steve didn’t know they could. His heart pounds in his chest. It’s different. He feels flustered, and it’s wholly different from how some other people make him feel — hungry, wanton, hot, and safe — but it’s not a bad thing. 

“Hello,” he says. 

“Are you done?” Steve looks down at the notebook his hand, nods. 

“Can I see?” Ira asks, but they don’t hold out their hand, or look demanding. They tilt their head, stamp the book they were reading and slide it near a pile of other books. Steve puts the notebook on the table and pushes it towards Ira. 

For a while, Ira just stares, then they pick the notebook up and hand it back. 

“You’re a really good artist,” is all they say. 

“Thanks,” Steve says. He closes the notebook, fiddling with the corner of the back cover. “And, um, thank you for letting me draw you. It was... an experience.” 

Ira smiles again, then laughs. They seem to get it. Steve supposes some people must ask. He still can’t do it, but he isn’t uncomfortable anymore. He knows every line on Ira’s face, the curves of their fingers, the quirk of their lips. He knows it, even if he doesn’t understand it. That’s something, isn’t it? That’s something.


	2. II. Sexuality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still no anonymous comments on account of delicate flower syndrome. Again unbeta'd. If you wanna step up, please do. On another note, if I fuck shit up, tell me.
> 
> Also, Ira wasn't supposed to show up again. Sorry for my OC???

He’s in a TV interview the first time someone brings up the apparent “issue” of sexuality. TV interviewers, as far as he can tell, are supposed to be like newspaper interviewers. They’re supposed to ask relevant questions which gives new, important or interesting information to the public. For the most part, however, it seems like these days they just want to gossip, and for some reason they ask Steve a lot. Maybe they think he’s the most likely to unknowingly give them a juicy answer; but there was gossip in the 40s, and he was never particularly partial to it, so really, mostly they just annoy him. Tony says that all TV interviewers are trash, but he likes those ones that fun of news reports and things, because Steve has seen him laughing TeeVo’d versions of their shows at four in the morning. Well, sometimes it’s a re-run. Those shows are pretty late at night. Probably because one of them swears a lot.

Anyway, he’s in a TV interview. He keeps taking them, even though Tony tells him not to. It seems like good PR, plus Iron Man is _expected_ to be an ass (although admittedly the whole Tony Stark is Iron Man thing had come as sort of a shocker. Both Tony and Iron Man do avoid the press for their own reasons, though, he supposes). He’s Captain America. He can’t just... blow people off. He wishes that he could, though. He really does; because this lady, Khristine With A K, leans over in her chair, and asks him a conspirational tone, “So, is it true the Black Widow bats for both teams?”

Steve doesn’t know what that means. As far as he knows, Natasha does not play baseball. Still, it seems like this is somehow a very personal question. He can pick things up from physical cues, if nothing else. He puts on his best 1940s fella smile, and answers, “Gee, I think that’s really something you should ask her yourself.”

Khristine With A K changes the subject.

*

The next day, Natasha walks by him in the hall, and pauses, turning her head and kissing his cheek. He stares, confused, but she's already walking away.

*

"Tony," Steve says. He's in the workshop again. He ends up down there a lot. He asks Tony a lot of questions.

There's certain things Steve can pick up on his own: Microwaves, DVD players, cellular telephones, what the heck a taquito is. Most stuff he can just look up on the Internet if there isn't some other way to figure it out. Even the Internet doesn't seem to understand people, though. Even knowing what "bat for both teams" means doesn't explain why Khristine With A K felt the need to ask him if Natasha was bisexual.

"What's up, Cap?" Tony answers. He's underneath one of his cars, doing who-knows-what. Tony used to get pissed off when Steve came into his workshop, but after the first year, he'd just kind of gotten used to it. Come to think of it, he isn't sure how this kind of thing hasn't come up before now.

"Why would someone ask me if Natasha is bisexual?"

"Uh." Tony kicks out one of his legs, and rolls out from under the car. Sometimes, Tony is super helpful. Other times it's like the Ira thing, and Steve has to figure things out for himself. "Assuming you're talking about that interviewer from a week ago, I'm going to say that it's because Natasha is a powerful and independent woman, who doesn't feel the urge to attach herself to a man to gain some false sense of self-worth." Then he wipes some grease off his arm.

Steve gawks a little bit. Tony tells a lot of jokes, and generally just likes to goof off. He's often snarky and sarcastic, preferring tactics like lowering the self-esteem of those around him, belittling people he doesn't like, insulting people he does like and otherwise pulling their pigtails so to speak, and avoiding feelings with big plastic smiles. All of these things make it really easy to forget something about Tony, and that is that he is a genius. He is well-rounded and witty. He's business-savvy, an amazing schmoozer. He's very well-educated, extremely open-minded, rarely truly judgemental, and actually an all-around swell fella.

It also so happens that he's good at people, and that he's one of the people who knows Natasha. Steve knows that at first, they hadn't really liked each other. They ground up against each other in uncomfortable ways. They had been, as he hears it, on opposite sides of a conflict. They had solved their difference now, though, and although Steve doesn't want to say that they're friends, he can say that they have an understanding of each other. So, Tony doesn't know her super well, but he knows her enough to defend her and think that the people who react to their fear of her are idiots; and he knows her enough that when he says things about her, he says them with a flatly confident kind of conviction. So when he tells Steve why people think Natasha is bisexual, Steve knows that it must be true. The only problem is that it still doesn't make sense to him.

"Okay," he says. "Thanks."

"Any time." And Tony rolls back under the car.

*

The thing is that Steve has known for a long time he was interested in both men and women. He wonders, now, if he's interested in people like Ira. He figures the best way to find out, is to just go try it. That means asking someone like that out, however, and Steve has never asked anyone out in his life, let alone someone so self-confident. Does Ira even like men? He briefly considers going and finding a different one, but that seems even scarier than asking Ira. They don't know each other very well, honestly. He goes to the library sometimes, and sometimes Ira is there and they make small talk, but they look right through each other in a way that hasn't made any steps towards forging a friendship of any kind between them. To be honest, Steve has never really wanted to. Ira is nice, but the need to know them like the need he'd had to know say, Bucky, had never been there. Heck, even when Steve had gotten over Tony's flashy, arrogant attitude, he'd wanted to be Tony's friend. Well, okay, he wants to be more than Tony's friend. It's okay to admit that, especially if he's only admitting it to himself. Either way, he's never really made a conscious effort to befriend Ira. Heck, other than that one time he drew them, he doesn't think he's even really _looked_ at them. Still, it can't hurt to try, can it?

*

His execution is sloppy. He essentially goes into the library, asks Ira where to find some book, and then immediately follow it up with, "Oh, and also would you maybe like to get coffee or something sometime?"

Ira looks up at him, silent for a couple of seconds, and then they just say, "Pardon?" super politely like they have no idea how to react, and have no idea what in the world just happened. Which is fine, because Steve could have sworn he was more tactful when he practiced.

"Coffee," he tries again. "Would you, ah... like to get a coffee sometime? Or dinner, if you'd prefer."

Ira's eyes narrow. They make that face they make when they're thinking, Steve's found. They tend to scrutinize people, like they can see something in a person's body language. Maybe they can. Steve knows that Tony is like that with the press, basing things off physical cues, what people say, and how they say it. There's a whole science and logic to it.

"Coffee sounds good," Ira says finally. "I'm off at four."

"Okay," Steve answers, and then wanders off into the shelves of the library.

*

Steve discovers that Ira is easy to befriend. They go out to a Starbucks down the street, and Ira orders a caramel macchiato. They put cinnamon on top, and Steve waits, coffee with cream in hand. They hadn't had much cream in the war, and Steve enjoys the luxury of its availability in the twenty-first century.

They sit by a window, in large cushy chairs, and Ira remarks, "You know, I never thought I'd be out having coffee with Captain America."

"You know," Steve answers. "I never thought I'd get to have cream in my coffee again."

And Ira laughs, and it's easy. Ira likes old books, and stupid jokes, and cats. They like history, and even when Steve rambles on about this one summer him and Bucky had to fix a hole in the roof, Ira just watches him, nodding at the right times, and snorting into their coffee as Steve remarks wryly about all the teasing from Bucky.

He talks about the weather, and how he used to get soaked to the bone in the rain, and about the holes in his shoes he would fix himself. He marvels at foreign food, and foreign fruit, and fancy coffee, and the numbers of shoes Tony owns. He talks about the bright lights, and ice skating at Christmas with the team. He talks about getting lost in the mall, and getting heatstroke in August. He talks about traveling, and his motorcycle, and how hot the pavement gets in July. He even finally asks where Ira lives, and Ira tells him about being homeless, about hiding in the library, and squatting in abandoned apartments in District X. Steve can't pity them, all too familiar with the sad looks and pitying words. He doesn't say he's sorry; just listens as Ira describes the moldy walls, and the smell of books in winter.

And they're beautiful, but Steve doesn't _want_ , doesn't trace the curve of their lips when they smile, or watch their hands, or think about their bedhead.

Ira kisses him on the jaw.

*

As soon as Steve gets back to the mansion, Tony emerges out of the workshop, grinning. "You asked Ira out, you sly dog," he says.

"I—" Steve answers. "How—"

"Texting," Tony replies breezily, then waggles his eyebrows. "So? How was it?"

"We had fun."

Tony stares at him for a bit, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully, and Steve wonders if Ira got it from Tony, or if Tony got it from Ira, or if they just both do it.

"So, no sparks then?" he asks at last.

"No," Steve admits, shrugging.

"Do you even feel sparks?" Tony taps his chin with his finger. "Is that possible? Do you only feel sparks for America?" He's steadily grinning wider, casually treading into ridiculous territory, because Steve is not attracted to objects, and he is most certainly not attracted to America.

"I was just exploring," Steve says eventually. He can feel his cheeks heating up. "Since it seems to be okay these days."

"That's adorable."

"It's not—"

"I feel like I should have a camera, and start telling people when to have you home by, and then tell you both to hold hands and smile."

"Tony—"

"I could start a photo album!"

"Oh my god, Tony. Shut up."

*

Tony speaks with his hands. He speaks in too-wide smiles, and too-grand gestures. He speaks in half-sentences, with teeth, and tongue, and hapless grasping fingers. Steve puts Tony down on paper, memorizes the calluses on his hands, the shape of his jaw, the curve of his lips when he has something planned that will get him in trouble. He memorizes the way Tony tucks his hands into his pockets when he's getting lectured, the sharpness of his eyes when he's angry, the arch of his spine when he's bringing someone down to size.

And Steve, well. Steve isn't stupid.

It's a Thursday when he's flipping through his latest sketchbook. He remembers, because Thor declares loudly that the Internet has "deigned this most glorious day Thorsday," and then follows with, of course, "and therefore, my brothers and sister in arms, it is only appropriate that we all indulge in drinks in my honour!"

It's Thursday, and half of his sketchbook is filled with Tony. Full body, head shots, his hands, his arms, his back. There's an entire page dedicated to his eyes, coloured with a blue pencil crayon, and accented with white chalk.

They're all sitting out on the back deck together, laughing and talking, drinking some beers and soda as the sun sets. Tony is drinking a "screwdriver without the screw," and Steve watches the glass' perspiration slip along his palm and the tips of his fingers, watches the way the corners of his eyes scrunch up when he laughs. He measure his own breath, the way it hitches, and then he looks down at his sketchbook, and thumbs at the corner of the page.

And Steve, well. Steve isn't stupid.

*

Knowing you're attracted to someone, and telling them that you're attracted to them are, unfortunately, two separate things. One of them, the acknowledging part, Steve has always been particularly good at. The other of them, the telling part, Steve has never had much luck with. The time period he had been living in aside, there just aren't that many people who got for scrappy little kids, and after that, when he'd been Captain America, he'd been surrounded mostly by "fangirls" and other like people. There's nothing wrong with people like that, of course, but it's somewhat difficult to be attracted to someone who idolizes you, and puts you on some kind of pedestal.

Nowadays, he's pretty sure that most people think he doesn't even know what an erection is. Well, Tony might. He makes a lot of masturbation jokes, but with Tony it's pretty hard to tell if he's serious or just teasing you. Sometimes it's both, anyway. For example, currently Tony is chasing after Clint, singing that "K-I-S-S-I-N-G" song, and Clint is firing arrows at him, which Tony is dodging. Steve had considered stopping them, but they're net arrows, so it's not like they can do much damage, anyway. He does wonder where Clint gets the ideas for all of those arrows, though.

Natasha is sitting next to him at the counter island in the kitchen, sipping a cup of coffee "as black as her soul" (according to Tony). She has one perfect eyebrow slightly arched, and is watching the two men run around the living room along with him. She blows on her coffee, and snorts. Steve nods in agreement. She seems far more nonplussed by the alleged K-I-S-S-I-N-G than Clint. Either that, or she's plotting Tony's demise in her head. To be honest, when it comes to Natasha, it's pretty hard to tell which is which.

"Oh my god!" An arrow whizzes over Steve's head, and hits the fridge. Jan appears to have just wandered in, much more awake now that she's nearly been hit with a net arrow.

"Jan!" Tony shouts, breathless, tears in the corners of his eyes from laughing himself hoarse. "Jan, help me!"

Jan narrows her eyes, then pours herself a cup of coffee, before sitting herself down next to Natasha. "So, what'd he do?"

"Natasha and Clint, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!" Tony hollers at the top of his lungs. Clint makes a noise akin to a drowning elephant and notches another net arrow.

"Oh," Jan says, then tilts her head, and looks over at Natasha.

"Not in three years," Natasha says. "Maybe five." Then she takes another sip of coffee.

"What about, uh," the younger of the two women taps her fingers on the side of her coffee mug. "What's-her-face?"

"Two months."

A woman. Natasha really is bisexual. Steve glances over at her out of the corner of his eye just in time to see her choke on her coffee as Clint finally nets Tony, screaming, "Victory is mine, bitches!"

She seems like every other woman to him. He'd been hoping there was some sign, some way to make this thing easy. Mostly, he was hoping that there would be some way for him to know if _Tony_ was interested in men. Alas, there seems to be no badge, no secret handshake, no magical, tell-all eye shape, or anything. He is, unfortunately, stuck in that uncomfortable place of Not Knowing; just like everyone else.

*

"Cap!" Tony says when Steve comes down to his workshop. "Just the man I wanted to see! Listen, can you just," he grabs Steve's arm, and Steve lets himself be dragged, mildly bemused, over to an x made of tape on the floor. "Good. Now, I need you to," He hands Steve a large pipe. "Perfect. Now if I just..."

Things continue on like this for half an hour. Steve stands there, holding up the pipe, and silently egging himself on. Tony, for the most part, mutters to himself and prods at things. Steve has no idea what he's working on, but whatever it is, it takes up most of the workshop. He has a grasp on most things, but Tony continues to work on things that are mostly beyond Steve's scope of knowledge.

"Um, Tony," Steve says after an hour. Tony looks up, seeming startled that he's still there.

"Oh, you can let go of that pipe now."

Steve lets go. The pipe is held up by several other pipes. The mysterious project is rather impressive, all-in-all, and Steve gapes openly while rolling his shoulders to get out the aches.

"Cool, right?" Tony says, appearing at Steve's side.

"Um, yeah." Steve stares at the thing, but still has no idea what it is. This tends to be the way that things are when it comes to Tony, so he doesn't question it too much. Instead, he turns to face the other man. "So I was thinking we could get dinner if you're free."

"Oh," Tony says. Then he looks over at Steve. Pauses. " _Oh_."

"Is that a yes?" Steve asks hopefully.

Tony looks down at himself, dressed in ratty jeans and an oil-stained tank top. Then he looks back up. "Um, yeah. Just let me change. What are we talking here? Filet mignon? Burger in Brooklyn? Asian fusion?"

"I was thinking street vendor."

"Always the romantic."

*

To be fair, Gary's Greek is probably the best street vendor in Harlem. The meat is crazy juicy, the wraps are warm, but soft, and the vegetables are fresh and crisp. Tony orders extra sauce, and Steve, after staring at his souvlaki, asks if he'd like some meat with his tzatziki.

It's different. It's not like there's sparks or anything like that, but it's warm and pleasant, and Steve finds himself sidling right up next to Tony, laughing at all his jokes, listening to all his stories, touching his shoulder, and his arm. A hand hovers on Steve's lower back, steering him towards a gelato place, Tony babbling about how he's about to have a mouthgasm. It's really good gelato, Steve'll give him that.

They talk about stupid things, wander around aimlessly, and eventually end up in a park at nine at night, throwing the remainders of their gelato cones at ducks. Tony slings an arm around his shoulder like it's no big deal, legs hooked at his ankles. Eventually, they run out of cone, the ducks get bored, and the two of them wander back to the mansion. Steve takes Tony's hand as they walk.

Tony kicks off his shoes in the main hall, and then turns to Steve. "Gonna kiss me good night?"

Rolling his eyes, Steve steps into Tony's personal space, and tilts his head to make up for the inch of height difference. Steve's nose brushes Tony's as he tilts his head to kiss the other man. He half-expects Tony to grope him, or go for a deeper kiss, but it's simple and light, and after a couple of moments, Steve pulls back and takes a step back.

"See you tomorrow, Cap," Tony says, cheeks slightly pink.

"See you."

*

"So, Captain." Khristine With A K leans forward in her seat, and Steve silently questions her choice of shirt. "Is it true that famous playboy, Tony Stark, has finally been tied down?"

"I wouldn't say that." Steve wrinkles his nose. "I mean, tied down is a negative expression of a relationship, isn't it? I don't think anyone could make Tony do something he doesn't want to do; and, anyway, again, I really think this is something you ought to ask him yourself."

Khristine With A K smiles that wide, plastic smile. "You sure aren't a gossiper, are you, Steve?"

Steve looks her right in the eye. "No, ma'am. I believe in people's right to privacy."

*

"For the record," Tony says, later at dinner. "You can totally tie me down if you want to." And then he winks.

" _Tony_."


	3. III. Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> QUICK WARNING: There is transphobia/transhate in this chapter. Steve also experiences some mild period-typical homophobia (but this is Steve, so don't even worry about it).
> 
> Still no anonymous comments on account of delicate flower syndrome. Again unbeta'd. If you see mistakes, please point them out.
> 
> This is the final chapter. I would like to first of all say thanks to Sam for the support, for reading this, and for trying to help me out when I was stuck and worried about WTF I was doing. I would also like to give the world's biggest thank you to my girlfriend, whose knowledge of Steve shall always and forever be better than mine, and who despite being constantly barraged with work-in-progress parts of this fic, continued to be supportive and encouraging, and reassured me over and over that what I was doing was not madness (or sparta).
> 
> I have no plans for extras at this time, however, if there's anything anyone would like to see, feel free to tell me so in the comments, and we'll see.

Every now and then, Steve wakes up with shame sticking to the back of his tongue like cellotape. He'll find his hands possessively on Tony's hips, or his lips pressed against his throat, or his arms around Tony's thighs, head on his stomach, half-buried under blankets. Normally, these things are pleasant. He'll trace his hands and lips over Tony's skin, wake him with a clever twist of tongue or a firm hip squeeze. Tony is hazy in the morning, compliant and easy, and it's the only time they have sex without Tony's running commentary.

Sometimes, though, these things are shameful, and Steve will roll out of bed, weight in his gut, his face red hot. He'll pull on his clothes, all the while quietly reminding himself that it's been six years since he woke up from the ice, and it's okay. It's been a year since him and Tony went on that first date, it's been five since he met Ira. Everything is fine. This sort of thing is okay now, and the hot desire in the pit of his stomach is nothing to be ashamed of. Still, he gets dressed, he goes to church, he sits in the uncomfortable, wooden pews, and stares down at his clasped hands until someone comes and asks him if he's all right. It's a funny thing, but somehow being asked gives him the resolve to say that he is, and mean it. The weight of guilt lifts from him, and he smiles, and says that he just needed to pray. 

He usually leaves, then, takes out his phone, and there'll be a text message from Tony; it usually just says something like "lunch?" So Steve goes back to the Avengers mansion, and he asks Jen where Tony is, then finds him, and takes him out to lunch. 

Today, Jen is watching the news. She moved in about six months ago. Steve, after seeing what good friends her and Tony are, hadn't bothered to ask. He'd been rather surprised, then, when Jen had turned very large, and very green. She-Hulk stood at seven feet with more self-confidence than Bruce's meek cousin Jenny ever had, and more than that, had been completely self-aware except in moments of anger. Steve glances at the television program, watching the way Jen's brows furrow. 

"What's happening?" he asks, sitting down beside her. 

She looks over at him, and her eyes flash green. "They tried to deny a trans couple the right to marry," she near-growls. He looks at the screen where two people stand side-by-side. The man is short with long, platinum blond hair and a sharp, merciless face. The woman at his side is all soft curves, with a round face, freckles and curly red hair. Her eyes are pink and red around the rims, and she's holding the man's hand tightly, cheeks dark with humiliation. Her make-up is running, and the man stops talking to pull out a Kleenex and tenderly wipe her cheeks. He softens everywhere as soon as he starts talking to her, voice low and hushed. The woman nods, squeezing her fiancé's hand tighter. 

"How can they do that?" Steve asks, baffled. "Even if they won't acknowledge her gender, it's still legal." 

"Oh, they can't," Jen snaps. "But they tried." 

Stunned, Steve stares at the television screen as the man runs his fingers through the woman's perfect red hair, all righteous fury at the sight of the sorrow and humiliation in his lover's expression, and Steve feels a bit sick to his stomach. 

"I really don't understand people," Steve says. 

Jennifer rubs her face with her hands, and then gives him a hopeless smile. "Me neither, Steve." 

* 

And Steve doesn't talk about it. He doesn't talk about it until his jaw clicks, until there are riots outside of the church, until there are protests covered by biased news stations and cruel reports, until he sees someone screaming in the face of the most unforgiving nun Steve has ever seen. Then Steve goes to church, his church, which is quiet and peaceful without rioting, broken voices, and he sits in the confessional. 

"Father," his voice cracks. "Forgive me, for I have sinned." He doesn't even wait for the priest to respond. He can hear him breathing, knows that he's there. "I feel so much wrath, father. So much wrath that people must still suffer in this world for things that they can not control, for things that they are born with. I thought that this world may have been better, that it may have been worth everything that I'd lost, but it's like the problems haven't gone away, they've just shifted. 

"Why are these things even a debate anymore? Why does it matter who someone wants to marry? As long as they're in love, then isn't that all that matters? Why must people be so afraid of them? There have been people like this for a long time. So long... I knew... Even seventy years ago, I knew people who were gay, or who were transgendered, but we're still talking about it like it's new, and radical, and evil, and it isn't, and the news is just hyping everything up— _Anything_ for a story, and I hate that about the news now. I hate that. They're supposed to be neutral, but they're all just gossiping or fishing for the most terrifying, oppressive story they can muster. 

"My friends now are sad, too. They're in love, too. Why isn't it— Why isn't it just okay? It makes me so angry. I want—" He covers his face with his hands. His eyes sting. "I want to go out there into the world, and I want to find every bigot, and I want to hurt them, because what they're doing is wrong, and they make so many people suffer. They make so many people sad, just because they're afraid. 

"It's not fair. I hate that people are treated like lesser humans just because of their gender, or their sexuality, or their race. I thought that surely we would be over this by now. I thought we would move past it, but we haven't. I'm so angry I can barely think or see or breathe." 

He listens to his own breathing, harsh and angry. 

* 

The riots and protests die down. People go back into their houses, absorb themselves in their day-to-day lives. Steve wakes up to the pattering of rain, to Tony's cold fingers on his skin, and grease on the sheets. All Steve can think about is whether or not Tony would still want him if he was like Ira; if anyone would accept it if he was. He wonders if he'd still be Captain America, or if they'd strip that away from him, if they'd mock him and belittle him. He wonders if there would be cruel stories about him on the news. New York forgets about the protests and the slurs and the bigoted nuns; Steve doesn't. 

He wakes up some days full of fury. He storms down to the gym, and beats up a punching bag or two. He runs through MMA patterns, practices stand-up routines, works himself until he's sweating and shaking, too tired to be angry. Every Sunday at church, he confesses to the sin of wrath. 

He's so busy wearing himself down to the bone that he doesn't realize that anyone's watching. 

* 

Tony holds the press conference on a Tuesday afternoon in December. The Avengers are sitting in the front row, all having found notes on their bedroom doors telling them to be there. Jen is on Steve's left, and Spider-man is pressed in against his right. Natasha is to Jen's left, looking for all the world like she wasn't rolling around in a muddy lake an hour before. Clint is beside her, and the various other Avengers have claimed the rest of the row. 

All the bickering and muttering and grumbling dies down as the press conference begins. Tony is dressed is a perfectly-pressed grey suit, a brightly-coloured rainbow tie around his neck. Luke snorts. 

"As I am sure you all know, there were a number of transgender riots and protests this past August when the church attempted to refuse a transgender couple the right to marry." Tony eyes the crowd, daring anyone to speak up. Steve has always been slightly awed by his ability to command a crowd with nothing but a look. When Tony Stark wants you to stay quiet, you had damn well better stay quiet. 

"I'm sure we all know that the last place I have my hand is the church." The gathered press crowd laughs softly. "However, in light of these events, and the impact they have had on those close to me, I have decided to take action. In January of next year, the Maria Stark Foundation will be opening an overnight shelter for transgender people. None of their information will be taken, cameras will not be allowed on the premises, and any and all transgender people will be allowed to stay without charge. 

"This is an active response on behalf of myself, my company, and the Maria Stark Foundation. I would like to make it clear that we support people of all genders, races, romantic and sexual orientations. Discrimination against people for their innate lifestyle is troglodytian, and we will no longer stand idly by. Thank you. That is all." 

The entire room erupts into a flurry of questions as the Avengers applaud and cheer, but it's all background noise. Tony stands there behind that podium with his head held high, absolutely unwaverable in his resolve. Steve knows already that the backlash which will come with this will be immense, and that the following wave of support will drown it all out. Tony has done something amazing, putting a fortune 500 company and the associated charity behind human rights, unafraid to stand up to what other people will say. 

Steve's heart swells as he pushes his way through the crowd, eyes locked on the man on stage. He hoists himself up and walks right over to Tony, who only looks away from the crowd when he notices Steve from the corner of his eye. 

"Steve! So, happy? Are you going to stop pou— Oof." 

Gathering Tony up, Steve hugs him, having to consciously put effort into remembering that Tony is outside of his armour and therefore breakable. 

"I love you," he says, and he means every word of it. "Tony, I can't believe you did this. You're amazing. I love you." 

"Uh." Tony is staring at him through his sunglasses, hands resting on Steve's arms. "What? I mean, I love you, too, but um, why are we doing this _now_?" 

"Because you're amazing! Because you did this. Because not everyone can get up in front of the world and talk about tolerance and support and honestly be intending to go through with it, and I know you are, and I just. God, Tony. I just love you and please tell me to shut up." 

"Shut up, Rogers." 

* 

The world seems to explode. 

There is of course talk of it being a publicity stunt, of it all being bullshit, of it being some prank. Then that turns into What Is Tony Stark Thinking? and How Drunk Was Tony Stark? and He Can't Possibly be serious. 

Tony proposes at 3 AM on New Year's, and by the end of January, the support letters are flooding in. Tony and the other Avengers, Steve included, garner great delight from sitting around in the entertainment room, surrounded by letters and emails, reading them aloud (and as much as Tony complains about the idea of paper letters, Steve knows that he loves it). 

Slowly, things are changing, and even if the world isn't perfect, they get an invitation to Clyde and Carol's wedding, the couple on the television, and it's beautiful.


End file.
